“I am glad,” she said, half to herself. Then with a last searching look,
“Have you not even a sweetheart?”
I must have reddened painfully, for she drew back with a hesitating
and troubled air; but the vigorous protest I hastened to make seemed to
reassure her, for the next word she uttered was one of confidence.
“I have lost a ring.” She spoke in a low but hurried tone. “It was
snatched from my finger as I reached out my hand to close my shutters.
Some one must have been lying in wait; some one who knows my habits
and the hour at which I close my window for the night. The loss I have
sustained is greater than you can conceive. It means more, much more,
than appears. To the man who will bring me back that ring direct from
the hand that stole it, I would devote the gratitude of a lifetime.
Are you willing to make the endeavor? It is a task I cannot give to the
police.”
This request, so different from any I had expected, checked my
enthusiasm in proportion as it awoke a senseless jealousy.
“Yet it seems directly in their line,” I suggested, seeing nothing
but humiliation before me if I attempted the recovery of a simple
love-token.
“I know that it must seem so to you,” she admitted, reading my thoughts
and answering them with skilful indirectness. “But what policeman would
undertake a difficult and minute search for an article whose intrinsic
value would not reach five dollars?”
“Then it is only a memento,” I stammered, with very evident feeling.
“Only a memento,” she repeated; “but not of love. Worthless as it is in
itself, it would buy everything I possess, and almost my soul to-night.
I can explain no further. Will you attempt its recovery?”
Restored to myself by her frank admission that it was no lover’s
keepsake I was urged to recapture and return, I allowed the powerful
individuality of this woman to have its full effect upon me. Taking in
with one glance her beauty, the impassioned fervor of her nature, and
the subtle charm of a spirit she now allowed to work its full spell upon
me, I threw every practical consideration to the winds, and impetuously
replied:
“I will endeavor to regain this ring for you. Tell me where to go, and
whom to attack, and if human wit and strength can compass it, you shall
have the jewel back before morning.
“Oh!” she protested, “I see that you anticipate a task of small
difficulty. You cannot recover this particular ring so easily as that.
In the first place, I do not in the least know who took it; I only know
its destination. Alas! if it is allowed to reach that destination, I am
bereft of hope.”
“No love token,” I murmured, “and yet your whole peace depends on its
recovery.”
“More than my peace,” she answered; and with a quick movement she closed
the door which I had left open behind me. As its sharp bang rang
through the room, I realized into what a pitfall I had stumbled. Only a
political intrigue of the most desperate character could account for the
words I had heard and the actions to which I had been a witness. But I
was in no mood to recoil even from such dangers as these, and so my look
showed her as she leaned toward me with the words:
“Listen! I am burdened with a secret. I am in this house, in this city,
for a purpose. The secret is not my own and I cannot part with it;
neither is my purpose communicable. You therefore will be obliged to
deal with the greatest dangers blindfold. One encouragement only I can
give you. You will work for good ends. You are pitted against wrong, not
right, and if you succumb, it will be in a cause you yourself would call
noble. Do I make myself understood, Mr.--Mr. ------”
“Abbott,” I put in, with a bow.
She took the bow for an affirmative, as indeed I meant she should. “You
do not recoil,” she murmured, “not even when I say that you must take
no third party into your confidence, no matter to what extremity you are
brought.”
“I would not be the man I think I am, if I recoiled,” I said, smiling.
She waved her hand with almost a stern air.
“Swear!” she commanded; “swear that, from the moment you leave this
door till you return to it, you will breathe no word concerning me, your
errand, or even the oath I am now exacting from you.”
“Ah!” thought I to myself, “this is serious.” But I took the oath under
the spell of the most forceful personality I had ever met, and did not
regret it--_then_.
“Now let us waste no more time,” said she.
“In the large building on ------ Street there is an office with the name
of Dr. Merriam on the door. See! I have written it on this card, so that
there may be no mistake about it. That office is open to patients from
ten in the morning until twelve at noon. During these hours any one can
enter there; but to awaken no distrust, he should have some ailment.
Have you not some slight disorder concerning which you might consult a
physician?”
“I doubt it,” said I; “but I might manufacture one.”
“That would not do with Dr. Merriam. He is a skilful man; he would see
through any imposture.”
“I have a sick friend,” I ruminated. “And by the way, his case is
obscure and curious. I could interest any doctor in it in five minutes.”
“That is good; consult him in regard to your friend; meantime--while you
are waiting for the interview, I mean--take notice of a large box you
will find placed on a side-table. Do not seem to fix your attention on
it, but never let it be really out of your sight from the moment the
door is unlocked at ten till you are forced by the doctor’s importunity
to leave the room at twelve. If you are alone there for one minute
(and you will be allowed to remain there alone if you show no haste to
consult the doctor) unlock that box--here is the key--and look carefully
inside. No one will interfere and no one will criticize you; there is
more than one person who has access to that box.”
“But--” I put in.
“You will discover there,” she whispered, “a hand of bronze lying on
an enamelled cushion. On the fingers of this hand there should be, and
doubtless are, rings of forged steel of peculiar workmanship. _If there
is one on the middle finger_, my cause is lost, and I can only await the
end.” Her cheek paled. “_But if there is not_, you may be sure that an
attempt will be made by some one to-morrow--I do not know whom--to put
one there before the office closes at noon. The ring will be mine--the
one stolen from my hand just now--and it will be your business to
prevent the box being opened for this purpose, by any means short of
public interference involving arrest and investigation; for this, too,
would be fatal. The delay of a day may be of incalculable service to me.
It would give me time to think, if not to act. Does the undertaking seem
a hopeless one? Am I asking too much of your inexperience?”
“It does not seem a hopeful one,” I admitted; “but I am willing to
undertake the adventure. What are its dangers? And why, if I see the
ring on the finger you speak of, cannot I take it off and bring it back
to you?”
“Because,” said she, answering the last question first, “the ring
becomes a part of the mechanism the moment it is thrust over the last
joint. You could not draw it off. As for the dangers I allude to, they
are of a hidden character, and part of the secret I mentioned. If,
however, you exercise your wit, your courage, and a proper amount of
strategy, you may escape. Interference must be _proved_ against you.
That rule, at least, has been held inviolate.”
Aghast at the mysterious perils she thus indicated in the path toward
which she was urging me, I for one instant felt an impulse to retreat.
But adventure of any kind has its allurements for an unoccupied youth
of twenty-one, and when seasoned, as this was, by a romantic, if
unreasonable, passion, proved altogether too irresistible for me to give
it up. Laughing outright in my endeavor to throw off the surplus of my
excitement, I drew myself up and uttered some fiery phrase of courage,
which I doubt if she even heard. Then I said some word about the doctor,
which she at once caught up.
“The doctor,” said she, “may know, and may not know, the mysteries of
that box. I would advise you to treat him solely as a doctor. He who
uses the key you now hold in your hand cannot be too wary; by which I
mean too careful or too silent. Oh, that I dared to go there myself! But
my agitation would betray me. Besides, my person is known, or this ring
would never have been taken from me.
“I will be your deputy,” I assured her. “Have you any further
instructions?”
“No,” said she; “instructions are useless in an affair of this kind.
Your actions must be determined by the exigencies of the moment.
Meantime, my every thought will be yours. Good-night, sir; pray God, it
may not be good-by.”
“One moment,” I said, as I arose to go. “Have you any objection to
telling me your name?”
“I am Miss Calhoun,” she said, with a graceful bow.
This was the beginning of my formidable adventure with the bronze hand.